Chili CookOff
by Surplus Imagination
Summary: A quick stop at a chili cook-off lands Dean and Sam in a heap of gastric woes. Will Sam ever survive the effects of Dean on chili? Sick!Dean and Sick!Sam abound. Rated T for bathroom humor.
1. Chapter 1 In the Impala

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own the characters from Supernatural, no infringement is intended and no profit will be made. It's just really fun to mess with them._

_**A/N:** I found this molding on my laptop, and in a fit of work avoidance, decided to finish it. It's hopefully funny, pretty gross, juvenile and entirely unnecessary. I hope it give you a chuckle, or two._

**Chili Cook-Off**

**By Surplus Imagination**

Bitter-cold air whipped around the inside of the Impala as Sam rolled down the window for the twentieth time that day.

"Hey, it's freezing in here," Dean yelled.

Sam turned to glare at his brother. "My eyes are burning. What the hell did you eat? This window stays down until you learn to control yourself!" It was true, his eyes were on fire. Sam would have breathed through his mouth, but he was afraid of what the air might taste like.

"It was your idea to hit the Chili Cook-Off," Dean smirked. "Best damn chili I've eaten in a long time. Now you have to live with the consequences, Miss Manners. Roll the window back up. I'm freezing."

"You didn't have to eat so much. I'm surprised you aren't sick," Sam groused. It had been amusing, at the time, to see Dean pulled into judging the contest by a group of leering, middle-aged women. His older brother had been positively hunted the whole time. Now, it didn't seem so funny. Sam hunkered down in the front passenger seat, wrapping his arms around his chest. The frigid air cleared his stuffy head as much as the odiferous air. The back of his throat tickled in that raw way heralding the beginning of a cold. His own full stomach started to rebel against the four bowls of chili he had eaten. What had he been thinking?

"That's what you do when you're the judge. Can I help it if people automatically are drawn to my charisma and charm?" Dean paused to release a meaty belch. "They appreciated my glutatory talents."

"It wasn't your talents they were admiring, or staring at. And that's 'gustatory', not 'glutatory', dim-wad," Sam replied, blanching at the new smell the belch added to the car. Suddenly, a sneeze ripped through his body taking off the top six inches off his head. At least it felt that way. Maybe this cold would just come on and stop his nose right up. God knew he needed to escape the smell of Dean on chili.

"No, Webster, I meant 'glutatory', as in being able to eat large quantities on demand. What did they teach you at Stanford? Because they sure didn't improve your vocabulary. Watch this, Sammy. Look, no hands!" Dean devilishly took his hands off the Impala's steering wheel and lifted one thigh at the same time. The pressure had been building for a while. He was just waiting for the right delivery time. Sure, it was childish. There was no better fun than baiting his brother. Dean let nature take its course, the nature of bean chili, that is.

"Dean! Aw, man, I think you just burned out my nose hairs!" Sam covered his eyes with one hand. "Come on, I'm feeling sick here. And 'glutatory' is not a word."

"Here comes a double-hitter," Dean crowed as a second wave of sound and smell flooded the car's interior. "And the crowd goes wild! Should he go for a home run?"

Sam's stomach roiled. "No. Please God, no!"

More pressure obligingly filled Dean's insides as he prepared to launch the coup de grace. He was going to have to stop soon, the smell was making him feel queasy, too. Dean would never admit it, but Sam had been right. He shouldn't have eaten so much. "The hitter rounds third, runs for home and slides!"

The 'homerun' was Dean's undoing. In a massive push designed to make Sam beg for mercy, two things happened. One, the push left things just a little too 'wet'. Two, Sam responded to his 'coupe de grace' by vomiting out the open car window. Dean gaped as splats of half-digested chili decorated the back window. At least the back window had been closed.

"Pull over," Sam gasped. "I'm not …" More vomiting ensued. Dean winced at the tortured sound while quickly pulling off the road. The moment the Impala stopped, Sam threw open the door to retch further on the ground.

"Sammy, are you okay?" Dean asked alarmed. "I was just foolin'…" Dean winced as Sam retched some more. "Why didn't you tell me you were sick? Do you think it is the chili?" Dean cautiously put a hand to Sam's back ready to pull his brother back into the car if needed. Visions of food poisoning danced in his head as he attempted not to hear his brother's ragged breaths.

Sammy didn't reply, but vigorously shook his head. After a moment of gasping, Sam sat back into his seat. Wordlessly, Dean cracked open and handed him a water bottle. Sam took in a mouthful, swished it around, and spat it out the open door in a thin stream. After three, deep cleansing breaths, Sam glanced at his brother. "No, I don't think it's the chili. I was feeling 'off' before we got there." Sam snagged a tissue from a box under his seat and wiped his mouth off. "It's just a bug. No problem."

"No problem? This is coming from a man with a face the color of Soylent Green?" Dean warily held out a plastic shopping bag for the used tissue. He hated it, just hated it when Sam got sick. Dean shifted comfortably on the seat. He wasn't sure what was worse, Sam upchucking out the window, or the way his boxers felt after that 'homerun'.

"Could you not mention food made from people, Dean?" Sam growled. He closed his eyes and gently rubbed his stomach with one hand. Man, he hated to puke. "I really don't want to repeat that little episode."

Dean threw his hands up in surrender. "Just as long as you don't throw-up in my car, Ralph. I'll just take you to the next motel and hit the job by myself."

Dean's stomach chose that moment to gurgle like pipes in an old house. Sam's eyes shot open at the sound. "Dean, please don't do what I think you are about to do," Sam pleaded. "I don't think I can take anymore."

"I can't help it," Dean whined, squirming in his seat. "It was your idea to go to the Cook-Off." More gurgling heralded an immediate pressure powder-keg. Despite gut-clenching control, a small mewling sound escaped. Sweat broke out on Dean's forehead as he took in Sam's painfully pale face. "Sorry."

"No. Not in the car," Sam ordered. Snatching up the tissue box he thrust them at Dean. "You. Woods. Now," he barked.

At that moment, an eighteen-wheeler sped past the Impala sitting in the emergency lane. The force of the back-draft shook the car. Dean was instantly aware they were on a major highway. Any trips to the 'woods' would surely be visible to passing traffic. There was no way he was mooning a bunch of overweight truckers.

Dean shook his head vigorously. "Not gonna happen, Sam. There's not enough cover for a midget. I'll give some old lady a heart-attack and she'll crash and die. Look, there's a town not far ahead …"

"It's not like you've never gone in the woods before, Dean. Hell, I think you tree-trained me way before you toilet-trained me. Now get out there and … and… take care of business." Sam snarled and snatched the keys from the ignition. He ignored Dean while digging around in the glove-box for an air-freshener, any kind of air-freshener.

"Sammy," Dean whined, "It's only a little way to the hotel. I'll be good, I promise." Truth was, Dean wasn't sure he could make it to the promised hotel. Sweat beaded down his back at the sudden cramping of his gut. He was certain that this wasn't a simple matter of a gaseous emission. This wasn't going to end well.

A plain pine tree air-freshener was peaking out from between fake IDs in the back of the glove box. Sam quickly unwrapped the cellophane and waved it around the car's interior. Judging by the grimace on Dean's face, the pine tree scent was as bad as what it covered up. Sam felt no pity. "Go, Dean. Time's a wastin'."

"This is stupid. Give me the keys and we'll be there in five," Dean demanded, squirming in his seat.

"It'll be more like an hour, Dean, and you know it," Sam growled. He leaned out the open car door and dangled the keys right over the pool of vomit. Staring Dean directly in the eyes he jingled them provocatively. Visibly swallowing down the urge to add to the spreading pool, Sam's face grew even greener than before. "If you don't make like a bear, dude, in they go and I'll puke right on top of them." Sam made a painful 'urping' noise and covered his mouth with his free hand. "Promise," he mumbled.

Dean took a controlled breath and tried to stare is brother down. His gut was screaming at him. "Sammy," he warned narrowing his eyes, "if you drop those keys you are going in after them, face-first."

Sam responded by moving the keys closer to the ground. "It's Sam," he wrenched out.

One second passed. Then two…then ten. A bead of sweat rolled down the bridge of Dean's nose and dangled off the tip. With the sound of an on-coming freight train, Dean's bowels audibly broke the stand-off. They weren't going to wait five more seconds, much less five minutes, or an hour.

"Fine!" Dean snatched the tissue box and ripped out a dozen or more tissues in rapid succession. Cramming them into the pocket of his worn, leather coat, Dean slammed open the door to the Impala and climbed out making the car rock violently. Over the noise of the highway he winced at the sound of Sam retching again. That didn't sound good. The kid must really be sick.

Dean's intestinal track threw itself into overdrive. Chills raced up and down his spine as Dean looked for a reasonable place for a pit-stop. The highway was a standard rural divided four-lane road. Barbed wire fencing lined both sides of the road. Dean could see enormous herds of cattle behind the fencing on both sides. There was no way he was going to venture there. Cows were really big, stupid and kinda creepy. He had no intention of stepping in something similar to what he was planning on leaving behind.

The median separating the two sets of lanes was full of tall scrub bushes and weeds. They looked high-enough to take a squat in, however embarrassing it would be to be seen entering and leaving such a place. It wouldn't take a rocket-scientist for the other cars on the road to figure out what he was up to. Maybe he could just go on in the two feet from the Impala to the cow fence.

Then he heard more retching, and a suffering 'Oh, God' from Sammy's side of the car. The median it would have to be.

Slightly bent over to relieve the ever-growing pressure, Dean high-tailed it across the lanes and quickly made his way into the bushes. Both sides of the highway were mercifully empty of cars. Once he figured that he was in the center, Dean searched the ground for a suitable place to stop. The weeds came waist-high in a choked tangle. The bushes to the edge were a bit taller. Bees galore buzzed merrily among the thatch.

With frantic energy, Dean fumbled at his belt; the urge to 'go' was overwhelming. With a quick look both up and down the road to coming vehicles, Dean whipped down his pants and squatted down only to discover that his head and most of his shoulders were still above the top of the weeds. He wasn't hidden at all. At that moment a twelve-wheeler thundered by releasing a long, blaring honk. Damn. He was so going to kill Sam for this!

_Just get the job done_, Dean thought as he closed his eyes and concentrated on the needed release. Pain spasmed throughout his insides. The pressure was incredible, but nothing happened. Three more cars whizzed by blowing the weeds around at their passing. Dean began to pant and silently pray for something, anything to happen. His bowels had a bad case of stage-fright. He needed more cover and fast.

Desperately, Dean inched his way over to the bushes at the edge still in a crouch, pants dragging on the ground. Crab-style he turned himself around and backed his rear up into to scrub. His thighs were beginning to scream from the awkward position. Green leaves brushed over his exposed back-side in an almost pleasureful way luring him in. He kept backing up until he felt at least somewhat covered. Sighing in relief, Dean felt his body give way.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh….

Several long, loud and stinky moments later, Dean started to feel a sense of peace with the world. That was soooo much better. Reaching for his wadded tissue, Dean had to pause as his gut cramped and released again. That time wasn't so nice. It kind of hurt.

The wind from passing cars made the bushes whip wildly stinging his exposed skin as he was overcome with a third, butt-burning round. Someone blared their horn on a long toot right past his hiding spot followed by the deep blast of a semi's air-horn. Dean hoped that the cars weren't honking at Sam up-chucking on the side of the road. He was starting to worry about his sick little brother as more cars passed and honked while he suffered through his fourth and hopefully final round of chili induced cow-piles.

"Dean!" It sounded like Sam was only a few feet away. It was time to get back on the road.

Dean finally felt able to clean himself up with the wadded tissues. He scuttled forward a few steps to avoid dragging his pants into the 'mess' and prepared himself to stand-up and pull up his jeans at the same time when he noticed the state of his boxers. Gross. They would have to come off. Dean rolled forward to his knees and then rolled over onto his back flattening weeds with a crunch. Congratulating himself on his flexibility, Dean toed off his boots, wiggled out of his jeans and plucked the offending underwear out without ever allowing his feet to touch the ground. Getting the jeans back on, commando-style was harder, but the task was accomplished quickly.

Dean sat up and reached for his boots when he noticed just how close he actually was to the edge of the road. Stunned, he realized that the bushes had no real bottom leaf cover in this one spot. He could see right through the bottom half to see Sammy staring at him, horrified, right over the top of the car. With illuminating dread, Dean dropped gazed down to the ground where he had been 'busy' before. Just outside the edge of the bushes was the disgusting pile of poo. It was huge and spreading and already drawing flies.

Dean groaned as he realized that he had backed up, ass first, right through the bushes to moon every, single passing vehicle while he 'unloaded'. Sam was never going to let him hear the end of this.

Reaching quickly for his boots Dean heard another loud whoop and the squeal of spinning tires. Slightly down the road was a teenage boy leaning out of the passenger window of a dilapidated pick-up truck recording his escapades with a hand-held camera. The teen waggled the camera with a flourish as his buddy tore down the road.

_Oh, God, someone shoot him now…._

Tbc.

_**I must have been insane to write this. Personally, I blame tax season and the accounting laws. I do have a continuing stony line based on a personal experience. Toss in You Tube, preschool toilets and a sick Sam and I could make a story of it. What do you think? Finish it? Delete it? Surplus Imagination **_


	2. Chapter 2 The Preschool

_**Disclaimer: **__See chapter 1._

_**A/N:**__ Seems that there are enough sick puppies (like myself) that want to see the story finished. This chapter has a few more curse words because I just can't imagine Dean & Sam using any other language. If it helps, I winced and felt guilty each time I typed one._

_**Chili Cook-Off**__, Chapter 2 The Preschool_

_By Surplus Imagination _

Dean adjusted himself within the confines of his blue jeans. Going without underwear may seem like the sexy, macho thing to do, but he had never been a fan of that scratchy, bare feeling. He hastily tied on his boots and lurched to his feet, giving his legs a jiggle to settle 'the boys' down.

There on the ground lay his dirtied boxers. He was so tempted to just leave them there to avoid the embarrassment of washing them out in front of Sam. But there was the practical matter that he didn't have a ton of underwear to just throw away a pair. Dean shrugged his shoulders, snatched up the offending garment and started toward the car. Maybe he could sneak a wash when Sam was sleeping.

As he crossed the double-lane, Dean saw Sam attempting to wash vomit off back passenger window with one of the water bottles. That was thoughtful of the big lout. It was the least Sam could do after that tantrum about Dean's little 'home run'.

The poltergeist at the preschool needed to be dealt with soon, puke-splashed Impalas be-damned. Dean had promised Bobby that he'd see to it before the next Sunday service. Seeing that it was already Saturday afternoon, the job would have to be done tonight. The quick wash would have to do until he could guilt Sam to do a more thorough job. In fact, he might be able to con Puke-Boy into a much needed wax job.

All thoughts of waxing the car vanished when Dean saw Sam's face. It took true talent to display all those colors at once. Sam's face was definitely a nauseous green with overtones of light-headed pale. Unhealthy flush of fever showed red in his cheeks. Black and purple highlighted the facial palette with bruising under both eyes. Damn, he hated it when Sam was sick. This particular bug appeared to be a doozy. It was time to punt the poltergeist quickly and toss Sam into bed.

Dean dodged a speeding Honda and quickly got into the car. This time he was careful not to slam the door and rock the car. Sam also sat down through his open door. He tossed down the empty water bottle, sighed heavily and leaned back with eyes closed.

Dean tossed down his underwear between the seats on top of the tissue box and reached over to feel Sam's forehead. It was a testament to how sick Sam must be feeling, because his brother didn't flinch, or pull away.

"How you feeling there, Kiddo?" Dean asked softly. Sam definitely had something of a fever.

"I'll live," Sam intoned. "You had better have cleaned off your hands, because that was just disgusting."

"What was disgusting?" Dean drew back warily. Fear trickled down his spine in anticipation of what would come next.

"You do know that your entire _ass_ was hanging out the bushes, don't you?" Sam cracked one over-bright eye.

Dean just stared at him.

"Couldn't you feel the breeze from the passing cars? And I mean _cars,_ as in _lots and lots_ of cars," Sam smirked. The paleness of his face made the sick humor seem demented.

Dean found that he had no words.

"Damn, but your ass is white. You need to get more sun, Dude," Sam sniggered, which turned into a cough. After several hacking moments, Sam turned and wheezed out, "That was just like Austin Powers. You know the scene in the tent with the potatoes? Only you weren't in a tent…and those weren't-"

"Enough!" Dean interrupted with a roar.

"-potatoes," Sam gasped out the finish. He gave Dean a pained look, lurched out the door and started heaving once again.

Ears burning with embarrassment, Dean threw himself across the car to catch the back of Sam's pants effectively keeping his brother from falling into the vomit puddle face first. He was never going live that bush thing down. He ought to just let Sam take a swan-dive into his own spew. But his brotherly instincts won over the need for spiteful revenge. Sam's retching had to hurt. Dean braced himself to keep Sam aloft.

Wincing at each gut-wretch spasm, Dean's arm quivered from the strain of supporting his brother by the waistband and waited for the round to end. Eventually, he was able to drag his brother back into car seat. If at all possible, Sam looked even sicker.

"You look like crap, Bro," Dean sympathized. "No poltergeist for you." Dean looked around for a fresh water bottle. Puking dried a body out.

"Give me a minute," Sam rasped. "I'll be fine."

Sam really did feel like crap. He was starting to think this was food poisoning on top of a cold, or maybe the flu. Either way, he was screwed. "You need someone to watch your back." A surge of sickness came out in a foul-smelling belch. Sam reeled at his own smell and hung the air freshener on the mirror.

"Yeah, I suppose you can puke on the spook. That'll take care of everything," Dean groused.

Dean gave the car a search. There were no water bottles anywhere. He did find a half drunk Coca-Cola bottle of indeterminate age wedged under his seat. Dean shook it experimentally to try and judge the freshness. Nope, he could see flecks of mold decorating the surface.

Tossing it into the back seat, he turned to find Sam holding up his soiled boxers with a look of horror on his face. "I almost blew my nose on them," Sam whispered, his throat swallowing convulsively.

Dean snatched the boxers away and dumped the tissue box on Sam's lap in one motion. The boxers joined the moldy Coke bottle somewhere in the back seat.

"Shut your door, Sam. We'll stop for a drink before we hit the church," Dean ground out. "You, Puke Boy, are gonna sit this one out!"

45 minutes later, Dean pulled into the empty parking lot of the large Baptist church. It was nearly dark on this mid-winter day. Beside him, Sam was nursing on a ginger-ale and looking much better. Other than a humiliating moment in the gas station from an ill-released fart, Dean's bowels were behaving. How was he to realize just how far the smell could travel in that small store? Good thing they weren't ever going back there again.

Bobby said that keys to the church's preschool would be left for them under the mat in the building to the far right. A mischievous poltergeist had been terrorizing the daycare kids for years by dunking them into the toilets and spraying water from the sink. The 'happenings' were dismissed as kids acting up. Things had recently turned ugly when one of the teachers was hit from flying scissors. It was a good thing that all the scissors in the room were blunted for kid safety.

One of the teachers called Bobby, who called the boys, who had already made up the appropriate herbal bags to be placed in the four corners of the school. This should be a slam-dunk job.

Dean glanced at the dangling pine tree air freshener Sam had hung on the rearview mirror before getting out of the car. He would toss it out at the motel. He was certain that it wouldn't be needed anymore. He hated the smell of the little cardboard stinkers. Beside him, Sam climbed out, too.

"Where do you think you are going?" Dean asked. "You are sitting this one out, remember?"

"I'm fine, Dean." Sam stood a little straighter. "I can rest after the job is done."

"The last thing I need in there is for you to be blowin' chunks while I'm frying the poltergeist," Dean huffed.

"Oh, like you aren't going to be right there beside me bombing the porcelain sea," Sam threw right back, quirking an eyebrow.

"I can control myself, whereas you'll be tossing your cookies every five minutes." Dean's arms spread wide in a gesture of total control.

"Better than the dirty squirties," Sam countered.

"Dating Porcelain Patty," Dean snarked.

"Download a brownload," Sam returned with folded arms.

"Vector-spew," Dean spat.

"Punishing the toilet," Sam growled.

"Hock a furball," Dean blew back. He was certain he could win this little repartee.

"Dropping a load," said Sam a little out of breath.

"Calling Ralph..."

"Spray-painting the porcelain…"

"Make a pavement pizza..."

"Poppin' a gooky..."

Dean paused in his part of the banter. "Gooky? Never heard that one."

"Check out Transwiki:List of toilet slang. It related to Wikepedia," Sam grinned. "Look Dean, we're both feeling….under the weather. I say that two sickies are better than one."

"Figures that Geek Boy would have to research for insults." Dean's internal pipes gave a loud gurgle. He might need to hit the head before toasting the spirit. "Fine, we both hit the job and then head out of here. You call me if you start upchucking again."

"Deal."

The preschool building was split into two large rooms with a bank of windows lining the entire front wall. Through the window Dean could see tiny tables and even tinier chairs in groups of four. Childish finger-painting projects decorated the walls. Mobiles of leaves and feathers dangled from the ceiling. The average person would see a primary-colored school and be happy in the thought of children learning. Dean and Sam saw a room filled with potential flying objects. A poltergeist in there could do them some serious damage.

Sam found the key under the mat, as promised. They unlocked both doors before going in. Splitting up the herbal bags, Dean took the room on the right, Sam the left.

Sam entered the preschool room intent on making this the fastest job ever. He had been holding back on just how bad he felt to Dean. His lips were burning with hidden fever and his gut was on fire. Dully, his eyes searched out the corners of the room. The far corner by the window would do for one bundle. The other would have to go to the far back into the bathroom. Sam's stomach lurched with the thought of the bathroom. He hoped that his gorge would stay down long enough to get the first bag in place.

Winding through the pint-sized tables, Sam heaved aside a bookcase filled with Dr. Seuss books, quickly kicked a hole in the plaster, and tossed in the bag. No sweat. However, the moment he slid the bookcase back in place, his stomach decided to turn inside out.

Clutching his sore stomach, Sam bolted across the schoolroom knocking chairs left and right. He lunged through the bathroom door to discover two tiny toilets; each looked less than twelve inches tall. Their seats were only about the size of a dinner plate. One of the seats appeared to be sprinkled with tiny yellow drops.

With growing nausea, Sam looked around the room noticing that it didn't look as if the room had been cleaned in weeks. Sam suddenly realized that it probably hadn't be cleaned since the latest poltergeist attack. Those tiny yellow drops had to be…

Sam never finished the thought as his stomach burst forth with energy-draining force. Dropping to his knees in front the seemingly clean toilet, Sam's ginger-ale came back up like a rocket.

It was just like puking into the coffee can Dad kept in the Impala for emergency sickness; a small target area that splashed back on the user. Except this time, the coffee can was on the floor. Bent over nearly in half, Sam closed his eyes and groaned before next wave hit. This bout was really bad and he didn't want to know what was soaking through the knees of his pants on the floor. He really didn't.

Stomach achingly empty, Sam choked and spat out the last of the vile spew. His entire body was shaking. Sam wasn't sure if he could stand, much less finish the job. Dean had been right. He was more liability than help right now.

Sam propped his upper body on the tiny toilet seat with one arm and shakily flushed with the other. The evidence of his sickness swirled down the commode with a loud gurgle. Sam reached into his pocket and flipped out his phone. He thumbed the speed dial for Dean and waited. He needed backup and fast.

The phone rang and rang and rang. Sam dropped his head wearily on the seat edge. He could feel that sickness rising again. Without looking, Sam ended the call before the voicemail picked up and dialed again. _Come on Dean, come on._

The poltergeist's rest was disturbed with the flush of the toilet. It had existed in the depths of the pipes for years. With unholy joy, the spirit sped through the sewage and burst into the bathroom it claimed as its own. The spirit crowed with glee and gathered its force.

Sam lay listlessly on the over the seat after calling his brother for the third time. He was starting to really worry about Dean not answering. He was working up the energy to climb to his feet when Dean finally answered.

"What?! I'm kinda busy here, Sam." Dean voice sounded strained, like he was in pain.

"Sorry man, I'm feeling-"

Sam never got to finish his plea. At that moment the poltergeist focused all of its energy and forced Sam's head through the seat ring and into the water. Sam flailed and dropped his phone as his face was submerged. The bowl was so small that his nose squashed against the bottom. Surprised, he involuntarily inhaled a measure of the water. He tried to push away from the bowl, but the poltergeist was stronger and shoved his face in harder. If he didn't do something quick, Sam was going to drown in a quart-sized preschool toilet.

With his last ounce of strength, Sam bunched his muscles and pushed backwards…to no resistance. The spirit was gone. The effort tossed him backwards about three feet where he vomited up the inhaled water and tried to get his breath in great heaves.

As Sam caught his breath, he heard Dean's voice on the phone screaming, "Sam! Answer me, Sam! What's happening?"

Sam got on his hands and knees and crawled toward to phone when he heard, "Sam! Oh no. Holy shit!" And the phone went silent. Sam knew where the spirit had fled.

Tbc

_Aren't those tiny toilets bizarre? I never met a poltergeist, but I did once have a chili emergency during a Girl Scout meeting. I don't think that toilet was more than eight inches high! Next chapter Dean is going to get the benefits of my experiences. I hope you tune back in for more (and hopefully pop me a review!). Thanks for reading!_

_Surplus_


	3. Chapter 3 The Other Classroom

_**Chili Cook-Off**_

_By Surplus Imagination_

_**Disclaimer: **__See chapter 1._

_**A/N:**__ I am overwhelmed by the wonderful responses. Thanks for the great ideas! After my husband proclaimed that 'I wasn't quite right' for writing this, he proceeded to provide me with mood music (bet you can guess what that was) and several enhancements to this chapter. The missing toilet paper roll is his idea. Now on to a bit of Dean torture. _

_**Previously in Chapter 2:**_

_With his last ounce of strength, Sam bunched his muscles and pushed backwards…to no resistance. The spirit was gone. The effort tossed him backwards about three feet where he vomited up the inhaled water and tried to get his breath in great heaves._

_As Sam caught his breath, he heard Dean's voice on the phone screaming, "Sam! Answer me, Sam! What's happening?"_

_Sam got on his hands and knees and crawled toward to phone when he heard, "Sam! Oh no. Holy shit!" And the phone went silent. Sam knew where the spirit had fled._

_**Chapter 3 The Other Classroom**_

_**A few moments earlier…..**_

The moment Dean left Sam's presence, the battle of the bowels began. Stepping lightly and breathing rhythmically through pursed lips, Dean went into the right-hand classroom and straight to the back. If he didn't hurry, he was going to mess his jeans this time.

Dean started undoing his belt before he even got half way through the school room. There was no time to waste! Panicked, his attention was split between maintaining sphincter control and getting his pants off. Why was it that the urgency to go increased exponentially the closer you got to the john? Dean couldn't get his jeans down fast enough as he blindly backed up to the commode.

Instead of plunking down in the expected fashion, Dean's destination was actually a foot lower than usual. With the force of his 180 pounds in a dead drop, Dean's rear nailed the seat of the tiny preschool toilet with a loud clatter. He hit so hard that he actually bounced off the seat and onto the floor in a tangled heap of jeans and bare legs. "What the hell!" he cried out loud.

With fresh eyes, Dean looked around the preschool bathroom. He had never seen toilets as small as these before. Even the sinks were tiny and set low to the ground. "You have got be kidding me," he muttered while unwinding himself from the half-robed jumble on the floor. Tiny tot pot or not, he still desperately had to go!

Blowing to relieve the gut-strain, Dean levered himself up using the toilet paper holder. Half crouching on his own pant legs, Dean kicked out with one foot to free his jeans. The added stress snapped the metal fixture spilling Dean back on the floor. The freed toilet paper roll bounced merrily across the floor, unraveling like a long, white carpet.

Jeans now completely turned inside-out and trapped on his boots, Dean gave up standing and desperately scooted over to the tiny preschool toilet on his knees, jeans trailing behind him.

Dean was so glad that Sammy wasn't there to witness his humiliation as he mounted the 'throne'. The seat was barely wide enough to accommodate his rear and he sat so low that his knees were practically at eye-level. Satan himself must have designed these crappers. Dean sighed in relief and let nature take its course. '_Thar she blows_' he laughed silently.

A commode designed to meet the needs of beginning toilet trainers and preschool children was necessarily shallow and easy to flush. It wasn't designed to accommodate the volume of adult chili binges. Dean realized his dilemma the moment of the first blow.

A splatter of 'stuff' hit the bowl and a sickening wetness sprinkled the back of his calves. Disgusted and refusing to acknowledge to himself what that wetness might be, Dean reached for the toilet paper to clean the 'water' off. His hands closed on the broken fixture at the same moment he spied the roll lying out of reach on the floor. Dean closed his eyes in frustration as another pounding wave hit.

He shifted slightly forward trying to angle the projection to the water deeper within the bowl. Spasms wracked his colon. Dean started praying for a swift death.

Then the phone started to ring.

Dean swore under his breath as he dug through his pants puddled on the floor. The damned pockets were not only hidden in the inside-out jeans, but apparently completely inaccessible. He struggled with the heavy fabric when another cramp stole his breath away. Distantly, he heard the phone stop ringing, then start up again. Sammy was in trouble.

He shifted his weight around a little and started groping for the phone again. The twisting motion to reach around the other side to try for that pocket made him gasp in agony. He had never felt this bad before, at least not in this way. He'd rather be gun-shot, tossed around by a ghost, or ripped up by demons than endure even one more minute of projectile diarrhea. Dean was certain if this did not stop soon, he as going to disembowel from the strain alone.

Sweat soaked his face and ran down his back in the effort to reach the phone. Pulling and tugging and cursing, he finally got the top of the jeans right-side out. Pocket exhumed, Dean found the phone as it rang for the third time. Unfortunately, his bowels had other plans for his attention.

"What! I'm kinda busy here, Sam," Dean said through clenched teeth as he rode out the current urge. It was taking all of control not to serenade Sam with more of his bathroom explosions.

"Sorry man, I'm feeling-" Sam's weak voice cut off suddenly with a thunk, a loud splash and the sounds of a struggle. Dean could hear gurgling in the background. He screamed into the phone, "Sam! Sam! Answer me, Sam!"

Dean struggled to his feet, dragging his pants up with one hand while holding the phone with the other. He clumsily tripped over his own pant legs and lurched against the flush handle. Unsteady, Dean fell back to the toilet seat with a jolt. He could feel the swirl of air from the bowl flushing below him.

"Sam! Answer me, Sam! What's happening?" Dean swore loudly and tried unsucessfully to stand again. He settled on hopping up and down violently, determined to either get the jeans on, or yank them completely off. Bare-assed or not, he was going to check on Sam right now! With truly amazing dexerity, he saved himself from streaking by managing to yank the tangled mass up and stumbled toward the door. In his haste, Dean over-zipped _himself_ causing a spike of unmentionable pain. It stopped him dead in his tracks. _Damn, he hadn't done that since he was six! _

Breathing hard against the pain, Dean paused to necessarily fix his zipper when the temperature dropped in the bathroom. His breath became a burst of foggy clouds. Dean froze his unzipping as the faucet heads popped off the midget-sized sinks, one by one. Water shot from each severed spigot, like the fountains in Vegas, soaking him from the waist down.

"Sam! Oh, no… holy shit!" Dean quickly dodged a flying faucet. It smacked the far wall with a metallic clang. Dean dropped the phone to avoid another metal flying object. He could feel the lodged zipper yank out a chunk of flesh as he bobbed and weaved. That was seriously going to hurt later. He could hear Sam screaming into the phone, "The poltergeist lives in the sewage pipe. Hold on, Dean, I'm on the way!"

There was only one way to end this. Grabbing one of the herbal bags out of his jean pocket, Dean picked up a loose faucet and used it to punch a hole in the bathroom wall. Cramming the bag in, he turned to leave. He had to get to the front corner of the schoolroom for the other bag.

A supernatural wind kicked up flinging paper towels around the room, twister-style. A metal paper towel dispenser ripped itself from the wall to slam into Dean's retreating back. Dean gritted his teeth and continued onward.

The poltergeist wasn't through yet. The twister of wind followed Dean into the front room levitating desks and chairs, books and papers. Dean was pummeled from every side with bruising force. One of the tiny school chairs clipped the side of his head just as two miniature desks launched themselves at his knees. Dean was flipped over the tables landing hard on his back. Undeterred, he started scooting on his back toward the corner, shielding his face with his arms. His destination was only a few feet away.

"Dean!"

"Stay there, Sam," Dean yelled over the whirlwind. "I got it."

"Dean, watch out!"

There was a loud crash and a breaking of glass. Dean's heart stopped as he watched Sam fly over the top of him to crash against the near wall. His lanky brother first landed on top of a bookcase filled with stuffed animals, then rolled off to land stomach-down on a crate of building blocks, stunned.

Dean scooted the last foot to the needed corner. He spun around to kick a hole in the wall making it happen in two sharp blows. Picture books started flying off shelves to impale themselves into his stomach. Dean felt the air whoosh out of his lungs as he fumbled for the last herbal bag. It was gone!

Suddenly, Sam showed up on all fours clutching the bag in his hands. He was dripping wet from his head to his shoulders. Dean grabbed the herbal bag and crammed it in the hole.

Energy pulsated wildly and then released in an updraft of air. Desks, tables and school supplies all hit the floor suddenly released from their unnatural flight. It was over.

Dean exhaustedly dropped his head back to the floor. Papers fluttered down on top of his prone form, but he didn't care. His sodden jeans felt gross and he was certain he would need Neosporin on 'Little Dean', but for the moment his bowels were silent and pain-free and the poltergeist was gone. He was just going to lay here for a moment and….recover. _Yeah, that's the ticket. Recover._

The peace was broken when Sam started to dry-heave next to him. Time to head down the road before the kid hacked up his spleen.

Shoving the books and loose papers off his abdomen, Dean wrangled his tired, sore body first to his knees and then to his feet. The schoolroom was completely destroyed. He grasped his brother under the arms and pulled. Sam tried to help, but was unable to take most of his weight. Eventually, Dean managed to get his brother sitting up on a desk while he plowed his way through the rubble to retrieve his phone. They had to get out of there before someone noticed the mess.

Fifteen miles away, and half an hour later, Dean shifted uncomfortably in the driver's seat of the Impala. He was sitting on an old towel to protect the leather from his filthy jeans. The denim was stiff and chaffed in all the wrong places. Dean swore that they were also shrinking as they dried, creating a horrible pinching around his crotch. The smell rising up from them was just the last bad thing in a chain-reaction from the spur-of-the-moment stop at a local chili cook-off. He was never going to eat chili again. He was definitely never going to wear these jeans again!

On the passenger side, Sam slept like the dead, Dean's leather jacket draped over his fevered form. His brother was really sick and needed a bed. Dean wanted to get a bit further way from the preschool before he stopped for the night. A blue sedan had pulled into the church parking lot just as the Impala was leaving. Dean was worried that his car would be associated with the damage they left behind. His phone rang. It was Bobby.

Dean picked up wincing at the pubic pinch. He was gonna have stop and change his clothes soon. "Hey Bobby, the job is done," he exhaled wearily.

"Good to hear it. You and Sam ok?" Dean could hear laughter and squealing tires in the background. Bobby must be watching a cop show on TV.

"We're banged up a bit, but the poltergeist is toast. Tell your teacher friend that we are sorry for the mess. It was really strong." He was sorry, but not enough to clean up when Sam was about to collapse.

"Anything else interesting happen, say on the way to the job?" Bobby inquired? Dean could hear amusement in the grizzled man's voice. "Make any…pit stops?"

"Not to mention, Bobby." Dean wasn't about to confess his roadside debacle.

"Dean, I got something to show you boys. Why don't you two come stay at the house a few days, and rest up?" Dean could hear laughter and the squealing of tires again. Bobby snorted amusement into the phone with a rush of air.

"Might be a good idea. Sam is sporting a pretty bad cold on top of a pile of bruises," Dean replied thankfully. "And I really need to do some laundry."

"I bet you do. I figure that you are only about two hours away. I'm going to have some hot soup ready and a box of Pepto Bismol out."

"Thanks, Bobby. We'll see you in a few." Dean clicked off his phone and replayed the conversation in his mind. Something didn't sit right.

"Everything ok?" Sam asked sleepily.

"Yeah, it was Bobby asking about the job," Dean replied. He switched his left hand to the steering wheel to check on Sam with his right. The kid's fever was definitely climbing. "Whatcha say we head to Bobby's house for a couple of days."

"Sounds good," Sam muttered, closing his eyes again. "Wake me when we get there."

Dean spent the next two hours shaking his head at the events of the day. Luckily, the Impala still had most of a tank of gas, so he didn't have to stop once on the way. He made good time.

Bobby came out the door when the Impala pulled into the lot. Dean cut the engine and gratefully got out of the car. His back was killing him from the paper towel dispenser hit and there was a deep ache in his crotch. He stretched out his vertebra one bone-crack at a time.

"What the hell is that smell?" Bobby asked. "You stink, son."

"Don't I know it. The poltergeist was centered in the bathroom. Things went hinky from there," Dean said. He leaned in the door of the Impala. "Wake up, Sam. We're here."

Sam obligingly sat up and blinked his eyes owlishly. He turned his head. "Hey, Bobby."

"Dean says you're feeling sick. Come on in the house and I'll fix you right up," Bobby offered. "I bet your stomach is sore from all that throwing up."

Sam climbed out of the car puzzled. "How'd you know that?" he asked.

"Come on, I got a surprise," Bobby chuckled.

Dean grabbed both bags out of the back along with his dirty boxers from earlier, and followed Sam and Bobby up the steps.

"I got a call from Taylor earlier this evening. He's a hunter friend of mine. He said that I had to check out a video on the web." Bobby stopped just inside the door to take the bags from Dean and set them on the floor.

"I know Taylor," Dean said. "Good guy."

"Yep, he sure knows you two. Anyhow, he emailed me a link to someplace called 'You Tube'," Bobby stopped short. "Maybe it's best I show you." He pointed at the computer against one wall.

Sam shuffled over and sat heavily in the chair. Dean stood just behind Sam's back peering at the screen. Wordlessly, Bobby clicked a window open and hit play on the video box. The screen was titled 'Roadside Pit Stop'.

Dean watched in horror as the video started with Sam puking on the ground next to his Impala and moved on to a perfectly centered shot of his extremely white derriere sticking out of the bushes.

_Oh my God….._

Tbc

_Yep, the You Tube video is the next chapter. I have lots of ideas to work in.__ Wonder what kind of trouble I can cause the Winchester boys stuck sick at Bobby's house. Hmm… I hope you tune back in for even more merriment (and hopefully pop me a thought-provoking review!). Thanks for reading!_

_Surplus_


	4. Chapter 4 You Tube

_**Chili Cook-Off**_

_By Surplus Imagination_

_**Disclaimer: **__See chapter 1._

_**A/N:**__ Thanks to Swenglish for the scene at the end. My husband is now seriously into this story. He's responsible for half of the You Tube dialog. Tell him at the end if you like it! The language in this chapter is so foul that I had to wash my own mouth out with soap! In fact, I think I need to wash hubby's mouth out, too. Oh, honey……. _

_**Previously in Chapter 3:**_

_Dean watched in horror as the video started with Sam puking on the ground next to his Impala and moved on to a perfectly centered shot of his extremely white derriere sticking out of the bushes._

_Oh my God….._

_**Chapter 4 - You Tube**_

"Play it again, Sam"

The entire world narrowed to a three by three inch video box on Bobby's ancient 486 computer. How the hell that old wreck of electronics could actually download and play the You Tube video was beyond comprehension. Sam would usually feel the need to ask such a question, but tonight he was too tired and sick to give a damn. With a heavy sigh, Sam grasped the roller-ball mouse and clicked the small play arrow.

"_Dude, you got the camera on?"_

"_Awww, gross…check that out. It's like..like…you know.. the exorcist." _

"_Nah, man. That Blair chick spewed pea soup. That stuff's brownish and chunky__." _

"_Eww..what do you think it is? Hey, he stopped; nope, there he goes again. Awesome!"_

"_What kind of car is that?"_

"_A black one, ya moron. Oh, God, I think some just came out his nose!"_

"_Look left Daryl, over there in the median. The bushes are moving. Maybe it's the driver."_

"_Could be….hey, that looks like…is that his...you've got to be shittin' me!"_

"_Hahahahahahahahahaha-hoohoo-hahahahaha, shit is right!"_

"_That's just sick….Oh, God, he's doing it again!"_

"_Baahahahahahaha (hack, hack, gasp)heeheeheeheeheeheehee…"_

"_Look at that mound! It's huge! Damn his ass is white. Get a suntan, dude!"_

"_Hahahahahahahaa..you're killing me here…heeheehee…."_

"_I'm gonna puke watching this. My eyes are burning! My eyes are burning! No way, he's going again!"_

"_Baahaaahaaahaaa..ahem. Roy, I think I just pissed myself...heeheeheehee."_

"_Hey Daryl, just how much crap can one person crap…all at one time I mean."_

"_Beats the shit outta me, Roy….heeheeheehee…Holy shit! There he goes again. That shits disgusting! What kinda shit did he eat!"_

"_Damn dude! You have the foulest mouth. What kinda shit did they teach you in that backwoods school anyway. Oh shit! He's done. Start the car dude. We gotta get outta here. Holy shit…"_

_Whoop whoop whoop whoop whoop! Use a toilet next time, asshole!_

Sam let his head fall to the table with a soft thud. This was the fourth viewing of the video. He could feel his brother's rapid breath heaving right behind him.

"Well, you can't see the license plate on the Impala. We have that going for us," Dean muttered. "And you can't tell what road we were on." He shifted his weight foot to foot. "How much crap my ass! They should have been asking how much can a guy puke. Jeeze Sammy, you really were chuckin' up your nose," Dean snorted, not in a nice way.

"About a quart, under normal conditions," Sam sighed, rubbing his stomach. "And the human body can hold anywhere between 4 and 25 pounds of feces." A pressure was building in his abdomen. Sam was mighty tired of throwing up.

Dean stared at Sam. "How could you know that? Why would you know that? Oh, let me guess, Wikepedia!"

Bobby barked a laugh, "I'd put you at the 25 pound mark, Dean. Well, maybe not now…."

Dean was upset at the video and Sam wasn't sure he could take anymore tonight. He shouldn't bait his brother, no matter the irritation. He was hot and achy and he really needed a shower. Strike that. Dean really needed a shower. And what was that smell? He was not about to sit around and let Dean gas-up Bobby's house.

"Dean!" Sam turned to glare at his brother who just pointed at Bobby's Rotweiller mix stretched out on the floor. No doubt the big dog could pass some serious gas, but Dean was batting a thousand when it came to odiferious emissions today.

"That just gets funnier ever' time I see it," Bobby chuckled. "You two never did tell me what got your systems outta whack." Bobby moved across the floor nudging his dog with his foot. "You keep that up, Rumsfeld, and you're spending the night outside."

"I don't think it's the dog, Bobby," Sam volunteered, using his thumb to point at Dean. "Dean's been one big gas bag ever since that chili cook-off at lunch." As if to emphasize the point, a familiar, yet fresh, stench filled the air.

"Dean," Sam warned.

Dean just pointed at the dog with one hand while leaning over Sam's shoulder to click the 'play' again. Sam could tell Dean was irritated by the way he shoved Sam forward to get to the mouse. Unfortunate for Sam, the shove rammed his sore stomach into the table's edge forcing the rising pressure to evacuate in a most unexpected fashion. Unexpected by Sam, this is.

"Dean!" Bobby stepped over to cuff Dean on the back of the head. "That's enough outta you. The head is back that way," he said pointing.

"I didn't do that," Dean argued, fanning the air violently. The odor was so bad that Rumsfeld roused from his slumber, gave Dean a canine look of reproach, lurched to his feet and padded out of the room.

"Oh, blame my dog again will you?" Bobby gruffed. "What kind of chili did you eat? It smells like something crawled up your butt and died!"

At that moment, Sam shoved back from the table and dashed from the room, practically knocking Dean into Bobby. Both men stopped arguing and stared.

"Uh, oh," Dean mumbled.

"Where is that Pepto Bismol," Bobby muttered heading into the kitchen.

Dean looked around for a book of matches for obvious reasons. In the meantime, he did a mental check on his physical well-being. His stomach seemed clear, his bowels quiet. Other than a dire need for underwear and clean jeans, he was feeling fine. In fact, he was starting to get hungry. In the top left drawer of the ancient sideboard, Dean found a box of matches and lit one, waving it about the room hoping to banish the stench.

Sam dashed down the hall toward the bathroom in the back of the house. On a normal day, Sam would stop along the way to examine the interesting piles of books, papers and paraphernalia covering every surface and stacked along the wall. He would even pause to admire the antique fixtures in the original 1940s farmhouse bathroom. Today, he only had eyes for the commode.

Grateful that this toilet was actually built for grownups, Sam whipped off his pants and took a seat. His stomach was roiling in a most unpleasant way. With panicked eyes, he sought out a trash can just in case things went bad at both ends.

No trash can. No buckets, pails, boxes, bins, containers or even a cup. The room was completely empty except for the toilet, claw-foot tub, a single white sink with a small shelve holding a toothbrush, a mostly empty tube of toothpaste and a comb missing several teeth. Sam eyeballed the distance from the toilet to the sink. Maybe he could use that if desperate. That's when another fact registered on Sam's brain.

No door.

Sam whimpered as his gut seized up. There was no way he could actually 'go' while a door was open. Other than discreetly using a tree or bush out on a hunt, Winchesters were definitely a closed-door bunch. In fact, even sitting here with his pants around his ankles knowing the door was missing, was just about killing him. He would die if Dean or Bobby walked in right now. Maybe he could make it to the upstairs bathroom. There had to be a door up there.

Reaching for his pants, his body rebelled in a big way. Half-bent over, Sam gave up the hold on his pants, crossed his arms on his knees and laid his head awkwardly down. Cringing against the sounds, Sam closed his eyes and prayed for things to end.

In the front room, Dean dug around in his duffel for his cleanest clothes. They were long past due for a cleaning. Still, something had to be better than what he had on. As he dug out his pants he sorted them by the filth factor.

Jeans with ectoplasm goo? No go. A second pair of jeans sporting large blood stains at the waist band? Nope. He didn't want to give Bobby a heart attack. The black jeans had most of one leg missing. Dean couldn't remember why and tossed them on the ground. His backup blue jeans with more holes than knees was the victim of a nacho catastrophe. There was more hardened cheese than denim on the seat. Not gonna happen. Finally, Dean pulled out a wadded up pair of thin, black sleep pants. They would have to do.

Scrounging for a clean shirt was less effort since Dean had bought a three-pack of white tees just a couple days ago. Then he dug for clean boxers. And dug and dug and dug. Nothing. No clean ones, no dirty ones. There wasn't a single pair of any shape, size or condition anywhere in his bag. Dean's eyebrows furled in confusion. How could even he possibly lose every pair of underwear he owned?

Then it occurred to him. Sam was pulling a prank. It had to be. Sam knew how he liked his boxers just so. Sam must have stolen his drawers for a joke. Dean thought that they had made underwear off limits after the escalating itching powder, depilatory shaving powder, black ants and red meat incidents. The results of that particular prank war had the two of them scratching, stinging, balding and running from dogs to the point where they both had to take off a couple of days to recuperate. If Sam had started that one up again, then Dean was so going to play. He had a tube of super glue stashed for just an occasion.

Dean resigned himself to wear the sleep pants without anything under them. At least they weren't going anywhere tonight. No one would see him dressed in pants so thin that _everything_ showed. The last time he wore these sleep pants Sam had laughed his ass off asking if he was heading out for a 'stripper gig'. Dean scowled at the memory. Down the hall he heard the toilet flush, once, twice….and finally three times. It must have been a bad one. Dean grabbed his clothes and headed for the kitchen.

Bobby was stirring a pot large enough to boil lobsters in, on the old stove. Three open and empty cans of chicken noodle soup lay on the table. There were also a box of saltine crackers, a bottle of Pepto Bismol and three bowls. Based on the steam rising from the gargantuan pot, dinner was done.

"Hey, Bobby, mind if I use your shower upstairs? I really need to clean up before we eat," Dean asked snagging a cracker. The salty crunch sang sweet on his tongue.

"Thought I smelled you coming," Bobby laughed, not turning around. He pulled out a long, wooden spoon from the pot, banged it three times on the rim and brandished it to the ceiling. "I'm redoing the bathroom upstairs. Tree fell on that part of the roof and crashed through. Got the roof fixed, but that's it. We'll all have to share the bathroom on this floor." Bobby walked across the kitchen to drop the wooden spoon and fetch an old tin ladle from a hook on the wall. "Sounds like Sam is done. You can shower down here. Just let me find you a towel."

"I wouldn't go in there for a while," Sam said as he entered the room. His face was both pale and flushed at the same time. Dean watched him drag his feet slowly toward the table keeping one hand on any passing piece of furniture for balance. Maybe the super glue would have to wait.

"It can't smell worse that I do right now," Dean quipped. "Why don't you let Bobby take your temperature and get you some soup." He reached over to feel Sam's forehead, but Sam jerked his head away.

"You don't want to go in there, Dean. Trust me," Sam rasped. The words came out in a heavy wheeze followed by a wet-sounding bark. "I'm fine. I just want to go to bed."

Bobby huffed, filled a glass with water and plunked it down in front of Sam. "You take two spoonfuls of that pink stuff and drink that glass of water. You're a dry as a bone. Think you can keep down a couple of Tylenol? You're looking fevered, son."

Sam looked the bubble-gum pink bottle and curled his lip in disgust, but picked up the spoon filling it quickly. "I don't know, maybe. Let's see if this stuff comes back to haunt me." Sam stuck the spoon in his mouth with a grimace.

"Well, I probably have some suppositories somewhere," Bobby trailed off, rubbing his chin in thought.

Sam choked and sputtered tiny pink droplets on the table top. Dean reached over to pound his back. "I got some liquid stuff in the trunk," he soothed. Sam just nodded. Dean also planned on taking his brother's underwear outside and tossing them around the yard. That'll teach him a lesson!

By the time Dean got back from the car with the liquid Tylenol and artfully tossing all of Sam's underwear all over Bobby's front yard, Sam was asleep at the table. Bobby sat slurping down a bowl of soup with more crackers than noodle. "The boy is really sick," Bobby said with his mouth full. Forcing a swallow, he continued, "His lungs don't sound good, kinda wet. I think you should take him to see Jefferson in the morning."

Dean nodded and filled his own bowl of soup. Instead of crumbling crackers into the liquid all at once, he liked to break up one saltine at a time and eat it before it got soft. Quietly, the two men ate their fill. Sam snored softly from his seat.

Bowls empty, Dean put his dish in the sink, poured a measure of liquid fever reducer in the accompanying cup and shook Sam awake. His brother was hot to the touch, but not alarmingly hot. Sam sluggishly woke up, managed to drink both the Tylenol and the glass of water. He got Sam on his feet and followed Bobby down the hall to the spare room. As he passed the bathroom, Dean noticed the gaping hole.

"Where's the bathroom door, Bobby?" Dean asked. He pushed Sam gently down on the twin bed closest to the door and covered him up.

"Used it to patch the roof," Bobby replied. "The tree came through during a bad storm. The bathroom door was the only one I could get off the hinges fast." He paused to pull a couple of obviously stolen hotel towels out of a drawer and hand them to Dean. "Night, Dean. Wake me if Sam gets worse. I still have those suppositories."

Dean cringed. No way he was shoving those things up his brother's….."Night, Bobby," he rushed.

Bobby chuckled as he headed out the door. Dean could hear him stomp up the stairs. Since Sam seemed to be sleeping peacefully, Dean gathered up his meager pile of clothing and headed to the bathroom for a shower.

Dean wasn't as shy as Sam in the bathroom. Sure, he was thoroughly grounded in the closed-bathroom-door policy they both grew up with. The missing bathroom door only bothered him a little bit as he stripped off the filthy clothes of the day. He was going to have to burn these instead of washing them. Gross.

The old-fashioned tub had a shower spigot hanging from the ceiling. There was no plastic curtain to keep water from splashing on the floor. Dean shrugged and turned on the water adjusting it to a nice hot. He stepped up into the tub and let the hot water coat his body. He fumbled for the soap, his fingers sinking into the softened mess. It felt amazing to get clean. He had just finished rinsing the suds from his body when Sam burst in and rushed to the toilet.

Dean closed his eyes and tried not to listen as Sam spent several very uncomfortable minutes on the toilet. The moans between 'rounds' were the hardest to take. Dean let the hot water pour over his head sealing away some of the sound. After all, there was nothing he could do right now. Maybe Sammy, his bathroom phobic brother, wouldn't notice him standing butt-naked in the shower not three feet away.

No such luck. Dean's eyes opened at the sound of a flush. He found himself looking into the horrified eyes of Sam still sitting on the pot. As if life couldn't get anymore embarrassing, Dean heard a gruff voice.

"Dean? Mind if I step in and grab my toothbrush? Promise I won't look."

Without waiting for an answer, Bobby Singer stepped into the bathroom wearing nothing but old stripped boxers and his favorite baseball cap. He was half-way to the sink before he realized just how occupied the bathroom was.

"Uh, oh."

Tbc

_I swear that I'll finish it up next chapter…if I don't get thrown another cool idea. One more and that's it! Don't forget to tell my hubby how much you enjoyed his contribution. And check out Swenglish's own website. Thanks for reading! Surplus_


	5. Chapter 5 Chicken Soup & Suppositories

_**Chili Cook-Off**_

_By Surplus Imagination_

_**Disclaimer: **__See chapter 1._

_**A/N:**__ You can thank SammyGirl1963 for the most extreme moment in this chapter. She dared me. See if you can spot it! _

_**Previously in Chapter 4:**_

"_Dean? Mind if I step in and grab my toothbrush? Promise I won't look."_

_Without waiting for an answer, Bobby Singer stepped into the bathroom wearing nothing but old stripped boxers and his favorite baseball cap. He was half-way to the sink before he realized just how occupied the bathroom was._

"_Uh, oh."_

_**Chapter 5 – Chicken Soup & Suppositories**_

"Damn, I wish I had my camera. This would be great on You Tube," Bobby chuckled, trying to relieve the tension. He had already started backing out of the bathroom. "Good thing I don't have on my glasses, or I'd be scarred for life," he said exiting the door. Both boys could see his strippedy-clad rump head rapidly down the hall.

Sam stared blankly at the doorway, his face pale and drawn. "You next, Dean," he muttered closing his eyes. "Leave."

"Dude, naked here," Dean said, turning off the water. "You leave." At least he was finally clean. Water streamed rivers down his torso as he looked around for his towel, eyes sweeping on everything but Sam. 

"I'm on a _toilet_, Dean. You leave." Sam's voice was so thin that it sounded disembodied. Other than gritting out the word 'toilet', he might as well have whispered.

Dean spotted his sleep pants and tee rumpled in a heap on the floor by Sam's sock clad feet. A glint of white mid-calf caught his attention. Cautiously, Dean allowed his eyes to follow the 'white' up. There was _his_ towel spread wide over Sam's lap. _Damn_. There was no way he was going to use that towel now.

"I'm soaking wet, Sammy-boy, and you've got _my_ towel. I'll turn my back while you get me another towel," Dean requested. "Can you help me out? I don't want to give Bobby a show." _Chicks? Yes. Aging hunters? No._

"No…I'm not done yet," Sam said in a strained whisper, eyes tightly closed. "I can't hold it much longer. Leave….please." 

Sam's weak voice drew Dean's concerned eye. Dean could see the veins on Sam's neck bulging and his throat swallowing convulsively. This was so not going to end well. Really not well. Maybe epic bad. Any irritation Dean had at having his shower interrupted vanished.

"Oh, God, I think I'm going to be sick," Sam urped and clutched the towel on his lap. A tiny stress tear squeezed out of one eye and rolled down his greenish-white face. 

_Bingo! Epic bad…_

In one quick glance, Dean took in the lack of things to double as a puke bucket in the antique bathroom and lurched out of the tub. Without another thought, he ran down the hall into the spare room looking for a trash can. Nothing! Practically skidding on one foot, he turned and ran further down the hall, past all the stacked books and paraphernalia and into the kitchen at top speed.

Buck-naked, Dean blew past a stunned Bobby sitting at the table drinking a tall glass of milk, snatched up the mostly empty, giant pot of chicken soup off the stove, and ran helter-skelter back down the hall, contents splashing.

Bobby carefully sat his glass of milk down on the table. Thoughtfully, he scratched the matted grey and black hairs on his chest and drawled, 'Now, that's not something you see every day."

By some miracle, Dean managed to make it back into the bathroom before Sam had thrown-up. In one quick motion, he shoved his fallen clothes out of harm's way, slammed down the pot directly in front of Sam's knees and hydroplaned on a slick patch of tile wet from his abrupt departure from the tub.

Practically skiing, Dean slammed into the far bathroom wall with enough force to knock the roll of toilet paper from its holder. He crumpled into a heap of still wet limbs and groans. From his new vantage point on the floor, Dean experienced a moment of deja vu as he watched the toilet paper roll unravel across the slippery floor. He heard Sam's snort of laughter turn into a moan, followed by a gasped, "Not chicken soup!" Horrible retching ensued filled with the wet sounds of pouring liquid. Dean decided that he might as well just stay down there on the floor and closed his eyes. If he didn't move, then nothing else could go wrong. The cool tile actually felt kinda good.

After a few minutes of gagging and spitting, Dean heard a flush and the scrape of the massive pot being slid out of the way. Eyes still closed, he listened to Sammy pull his pants on and empty the pot hollowly into the toilet. More flushing and sounds of disgust filled the room. Eventually, Sam's voice hovered above him.

"Thanks, Dean. Sorry about the towel," Sam rasped. "Are you okay? You look….uncomfortable down there. Here, take my hand."

Dean cracked one eye to see Sam's large hand only about a foot away. The closeness and angle made the hand appear larger than life. The huge hand was attached to a long arm telescoping away to the rest of his brother. Sam's distant face was obscured by sweaty hair hanging down. From the floor, Dean could see the slight sway in Sam's overhanging stance. It was time to get the kid back in bed. 

Dean grasped the lowered hand for balance as he untangled his body, but managed to get on his feet with very little pull from Sam. He could feel heat radiating from the grip. Sam's fever had definitely gone up. Once vertical, Dean let go of the hand and reached over to feel Sam's forehead.

"Personal space, Dude. Get some clothes on," Sam said as he pulled away. He shoved a pile of mildly damp clothes at Dean's outstretched arm and started shuffling out of the room like an old man. Dean had enough of nudity for one day. He quickly began to dress.

Damp skin caught at the new white t-shirt and the thin, black sleep pants as Dean wiggled into them. The mad flight down the hall had air-dried a lot of the shower water, but the slide across the wet tiles added some back. Once on, the clothes molded to his damp body like a second skin. With a shrug, Dean snatched up the pot, just-in-case, and headed toward the spare room. "Bobby? You got a thermometer?" he called down the hall.

Without waiting for an answer, Dean entered the spare room and flicked on the light. There next to the bed was Sam in his own tangled heap. Dean leapt forward with a cry, dropping the pot with a loud bang. "Bobby! I need help!"

"I missed," Sam slurred as he batted Dean's hands away. "I can do it."

"Easy there, Puke Boy. Let's get you on the bed and settled in." Dean managed to evade Sam's weak blocks and get a lock on Sam's torso. He gripped his brother under the arms and heaved upwards. Sam weighed a freaking ton! 

Bobby entered the room holding a digital ear thermometer. He had taken the time to don an old robe. Seeing Dean straining to hoist Sam on the bed, Bobby rushed over to help finish the job.

"Damn, Dean. He's burning up," Bobby exclaimed. He helped push Sam flat on the bed and shoved the thermometer into one ear. The result only took a couple of seconds. "102.4! I thought he took some fever reducer."

"He puked it back up a minute ago," Dean panted. "I'm getting worried. He's getting worse by the minute and his breathing sounds wrong. There is no way in hell that this is just bad chili."

Bobby nodded his head. "He's pretty dehydrated, too. We got to get that fever down and get some water into him. We can take him to see Jefferson at the clinic at 7 am."

"He's not gonna be able to keep anything down," Dean argued.

"I know, that's why I brought you these." Bobby fished a small box out of the old robe and handed them to Dean. "It says to insert one every 4-6 hours."

"No way I'm going to…put those…shove them…you know…up his….," Dean faltered. He tried to shove the box back at Bobby, eyes wide. "You're more experienced. You do it!"

Bobby backed away, arms spread in defense. "Nuh-uh. He's not my brother. Look at it this way, Dean, once upon a time, you used to change his diapers. He's got nothing you haven't seen before."

"Well, his 'nothing' is twenty times bigger than it used to be!" Dean roared.

"Kid, I feel for you, but I'm outta here. I'm going try calling Jefferson at home. Maybe we can take Sam in early." Bobby beat a hasty retreat. 

Desperately, Dean took Sam's temperature again hoping against all odds that the first reading was wrong. Nope, 102.6. The fever was still climbing. With a sigh, Dean reached over and shook his insensible brother.

"Sam, wake up. You gotta take something for your fever. Sam!" The only reply was moans.

"You so owe me for this one." 

Dean picked up the box and read the back out loud, "_Suppositories are… solid vegetable oil…. bullet-shaped…..filled with medicine….inserted into the anus_….duh!... _for local action_…sounds a little gay to me…._where it is absorbed into the blood stream_…huh…_through the lining of the lower bowel. See further instructions inside_." 

Dean rattled the box experimentally. Finding it mostly full, he opened it up and dumped the contents on the bed. A half-wadded up instruction pamphlet and four individually wrapped white 'bullets' fell out. The package originally contained ten suppositories. Dean did a bit of mental math and decided that Bobby must have used six.

"Hey Sammy, says here you are gonna get a full serving of vegetables and some local action!" Dean joked lamely and just a little too loud, hoping to rouse his semi-unconscious brother. Dean shook Sam again and practically yelled, "If you don't wake up, Sammy, I'm going to have to take this little white bullet-thingy and shove it up your ass. Do you hear me, Sam? Up your ass!" The last bit came out an octave higher.

Sam laid there in fever-ridden oblivion, unresponsive. With a sigh, Dean took his brother's temperature one last time – 102.7. Up the ass it was gonna have to be. With a heavier sigh, Dean picked up the instruction booklet and read further.

"_How to use your suppositories: 1) Go to the toilet and empty your bowels_. Been there, done that, never want to witness that again!"

"2_) Wash your hands._" 

Dean looked around and then wiped his hands on his sleep pants. They were damp, after all, and still clean.

"_3) Remove plastic wrapping from the suppository_." 

Dean picked up one of the white things and carefully picked off the plastic cover. It wasn't easy, or neat. The suppository was kinda sticky and soft. Grossed-out, Dean squished it between his finger and thumb just to see how much give it had. The little 'bullet' squashed practically flat. Ick. 

That one ruined, Dean flicked it away toward the chicken soup, aka puke pot. With a ping, it stuck to the side of the pot in a pasty mess. Dean wiped his sticky hand on Sam's jeans this time, justifying that he was going have to wash those pants anyway. Dean grabbed another 'bullet' and unwrapped it, careful to keep the intended shape.

"_4) Either squat or lie on your side with one leg bent and the other straight_." 

Dean looked at his jean-clad brother in trepidation. He carefully laid the suppository on the box top and moved to undress his brother. Loosening Sam's button fly, Dean grabbed both pant legs at the bottom and slowly pulled them off. Then, he propped one of Sam's long legs up in the correct position and made sure the other leg was straight. Sam never stirred a muscle. Dean picked the booklet back up.

"_5) Gently, but firmly, push the suppository into the rectum. Push it in far enough so that it doesn't slip out. Close your legs and lie still for a few minutes._"

Dean shifted his weight nervously. He glanced at Sam's boxer clad rear and properly splayed legs. He really didn't want to do this. To avoid things a few more minutes, Dean read the rest of the instructions.

"_6) Try not to empty your bowels for at least an hour_….good luck with that one, Sammy," Dean muttered. "Here goes nothing…" Dean picked up the soft, white capsule in one hand and grasped the back of Sam's boxers with the other. After a one good look locating his target, Dean closed his eyes tightly and held his breath. One shaky hand reached inward…_only for you, Sammy_.

Luck never shined on the Winchesters, unless it was bad luck. This day had been nothing if not unlucky. Blind, Dean groped for the proper location. It was hard with his eyes closed. Dean could feel his face furiously blushing even though no one was around to witness it. Blanching at the feel of the correct 'curve', Dean nervously launched his missile…and missed. The soft bullet rebounded from its destination and landed somewhere unknown in the depths of the shorts. 

Dean pulled back as if he had been burned. There was no way in hell he was going to go fishing for that thing in Sam's underwear! He lurched for the remaining two suppositories and quickly unwrapped one. He'd better finished this before he lost his nerve.

This time he would keep his eyes open. This was his brother, after all. He was only doing his duty. Sam really _was_ burning up with fever. Sam needed this. There was nothing wrong, or weird, or…or…_gay_ about helping his brother. Dean took two bracing breaths, grabbed the back of Sam's boxers and pulled them wide. Eyes clearly on the goal, Dean approached, shot and…. scored! Maybe just a little too hard. Dean winced at Sam's sudden pained moan.

The moment Dean's hand reached the 'target', Sam jolted awake at the cold, slimy intrusion. Shock coursed through his body as he clamped his legs together and rolled. "What the hell are you doing, Bella!" Sam accused drunkenly.

_Bella?_ Dean sat back on his heels. 

"I told you no more kinky stuff!" Sam blinked blearily with unfocused eyes. "Maybe some other time... just not tonight. I don't feel so good." Sam gave a few hacking coughs and pushed up on one elbow. When he finished, he looked up again. "Dean?"

"Don't you mean 'Bella'?" Dean asked, reaching over to take Sam's temperature again. "You havin' wet dreams about her again?" Dean had to get a good grip on Sam's fever-soaked hair to hold him still enough to insert the device. 103.1 Christ, the boy had to be delirious!

"What are you talking about, Dean? Why's it so cold in here," Sam shivered. "And where the hell are my pants?"

Dean was about to answer when Bobby came in the room, fully dressed. "Hang on to those suppositories. Jefferson said that he'd meet us down at the clinic in fifteen minutes." Bobby paused, taking in the scene, glaze lingering on empty wrappers. "I didn't think you had it in you, boy. I guess there isn't anything that you wouldn't do for your brother!"

"Damn right," said Dean, wiping off his hand hastily on the bed. "I need some help here." 

Dean tried to get his boneless brother on his feet. Sam was obviously not all there, spilling and falling in what ever direction his gangly limbs tilted. Eventually, Bobby and Dean each got under one of Sam's arms and half-carried him down the hall. 

"Hey, Dean," Sam asked drunkenly, one leg dropping out from under him.

"What, Sam," Dean gritted between heavy breaths. He hoisted his brother back up on both legs. On the other side, Bobby grunted from the added weight.

"Where we goin'?" Sam slurred, tripped and knocked the trio into the side of Bobby's hall. An avalanche of books and papers poured from the careful stacks to cover half the floor.

"To see Jefferson," Dean gasped. A couple of the heavier tomes smashed the three smallest toes on his bare left foot to mush. Bobby swore inventively.

"You hurt?" Sam pulled up short and attempted to look Dean over for injuries. The attempt didn't go very well because his sudden stop caused Bobby to over balance and crash one hip solidly into an ancient desk with three legs and a pile of books acting as a table-prosthesis. 

"Dean's not hurt but I am…now," Bobby groaned trying to keep Sam aloft while stabilizing the quaking furniture.

Dean tried to take more of his brother's weight so Bobby could get his bearings. "I'm fine, Sam. You're the one with the freakin' 103 fever! Now shut-up and help us get to the car," Dean growled. Sam nodded seriously and started moving his big feet again.

They cleared the hallway and started across the front room when Sam blurted out, "Where'd Bella go?"

"Bella?" This time Bobby stopped the weaving group. "What's she got to do with this? You know she's bad news!"

"Relax, Bobby. Sammy-boy here just has a secret crush…well, lust actually, on the bitch. Sam just needs to get laid," Dean groused. He tugged Sam to get him moving again.

"Ya think?" Bobby snorted. "He'd have to be desperate to lust after her. She's poison of the deadliest kind." 

"Yep, can't stand her, but she's got great..," Sam lifted both hands from each of Dean and Bobby's shoulders to cup the air. All three men snickered and stumbled against the front door.

Bobby was the closest and fumbled with the knob. "You got the keys, Dean?"

Dean swore, "Damn-it, no. They're back on the bedroom. I'd better snag a pair of shoes, too." With a knowing glance to Bobby, he shifted all of Sam's weight to rest against the door. "Be right back, Sam."

Bobby wedged his shoulder against Sam's torso to keep him from sliding down to the floor. "No more gummy bears for you, Sam. When did you pack on the pounds?" Bobby panted from the effort. "You weigh more than your old man did, that's for sure."

Sam nodded, his head lolling. Bobby felt the fever heat radiating off him. Good thing that the clinic was only a few minutes away. Jefferson would take care of things and keep matters quiet. Only about a dozen people worked at the small hospital, and Bobby personally knew most of them. Dean came trotting back jingling keys in hand. On his feet he wore a pair of glow-in-the-dark flip-flop shoes. They shined like beacons in the darkened room. "Nice shoes," he chuckled. Dean just glared back.

"Come-on, Sammy. Let's go see Jefferson."

The three men managed to get the door open and stumbled out onto the porch. It was only a short distance to reach the car. As they half-tumbled down the steps, Dean remembered his pay-back prank on Sam. Boxers of all colors hung from branches and dangled from bushes. Dean had even forced a pair over the mailbox and daringly raised the red flag to stick provocatively out of the fly. Dean groaned. The timing here couldn't be worse!

About half-way to the car Sam stopped and gasped, "Oh, no! The poltergeist followed us!" Sam pulled away knocking both Dean and Bobby to the ground. Dean watched in remorse as his brother staggered in a circle, staring around him in horror. The artfully strewn underclothes obviously resembled the poltergeist's handwork back at the preschool. Dean wished that someone would just shoot him in the head and end this day.

"Dean! Get the salt! Get the herbs! Dean!" Sam yelled, wheezing. He stumbled and landed hard on his knees. Dean lurched to grab his brother and keep him calm, but Sam fought was fever-crazed force. He got Sam pinned, but it was taking all his strength to hold his panicked brother down.

"What the hell?" Bobby asked, looking around angrily. "Dean, care to explain why there's underwear thrown all over the yard?" 

"Long story," Dean yelped as Sam's flailing arms clouted him painfully in the ear. "I could use a little help here!"

"Poltergeist…Dean…warn Bobby….," Sam rambled. His thrashing got weaker and weaker and eventually stopped. Breathing hard, he looked up with more focused eyes. "Dean? What happened?"

Dean relaxed his grip and sat back on his heels. He wiped the rolling sweat from his forehead off with one arm. "Everything's fine, Sam. You just saw my payback prank and freaked a little."

"Pay-back?" Sam asked weakly and struggled to prop up on his elbows.

"Pay-back for snitching all my boxers, you moron. Did you think I wouldn't notice?" Dean strained out a chuckle trying to appear in control.

"Boxers?" Sam asked, out of breath. He looked around at the various scattered underwear practically dripping from the neighboring bushes. "Ran outta soap, remember? Couldn't finish the laundry." Sam panted like he had been running a marathon. "I washed all the under-stuff first. Then I ran outta soap. They're all in my bag because yours was filled with dirty clothes." Sam's voice trailed off as he started coughing wetly. His long speech seemed to drain the rest of his strength.

"Looks like Dean will be doing the laundry this time," Bobby growled and smacked Dean on the back of the head for the second time that night. "What were you thinking playin' pranks when your brother is sick as a dog! He thought it was the poltergeist, for crying out loud." Bobby smacked Dean again just for good measure.

"Ow! Hey! Honest mistake," Dean defended. "You haven't been around for the last couple of prank wars." He blocked a third swat and struggled to his feet. "I'll do the laundry, all the laundry, just as soon as we go see Jefferson," Dean promised his brother pulling him up.

"I like Jefferson," Sam rasped allowing Dean to pull him unsteadily to his feet. "Maybe he can do something about your dented head," Sam laughed. The short-lived chuckle turned into another violent coughing fit. Once finished, he looked Dean in the eye and said, "Never woulda _snitched_ your boxers, Dean Got a special tube of super glue instead." 

Behind him, Dean could hear Bobby snort with amusement. "Come on boys, Jefferson is waiting. You can each super glue the other's britches later"

Tbc

_The hospital is next (don't forget how Dean's dressed!) One more chapter and we'll be done. Really! Thanks to SammyGirl1963 for challenging me to Dean's suppository moment. I didn't know I had it in me. Even Hubby laughed at that scene. _

_Please let me know what you think of the chapter! Thanks for reading - Surplus_


	6. Chapter 6 Car Ride

_**Chili Cook-Off**__, __By Surplus Imagination_

_**Disclaimer: **__See chapter 1._

_**A/N:**__ I tried to finish this up in one last chapter, but I'm not happy with the hospital scene so I split this part out. Thanks to Ziggy.uk for wanting a bit more on the suppository scene. I hope this works for you!. _

_**Previously in Chapter 5:**_

"_Ow! Hey! Honest mistake," Dean defended. "You haven't been around for the last couple of prank wars." He blocked a third swat and struggled to his feet. "I'll do the laundry, all the laundry, just as soon as we go see Jefferson," Dean promised his brother pulling him up._

"_I like Jefferson," Sam rasped allowing Dean to pull him unsteadily to his feet. "Maybe he can do something about your dented head," Sam laughed. The short-lived chuckle turned into another violent coughing fit. Once finished, he looked Dean in the eye and said, "Never woulda snitched your boxers, Dean Got a special tube of super glue instead." _

_Behind him, Dean could hear Bobby snort with amusement. "Come on boys, Jefferson is waiting. You can each super-glue the other's britches later!"_

_**Chapter 6 – Car Ride**_

Dean poured Sam's fevered, limp body into the front, passenger seat of the Impala. He lifted each bare leg up and tucked them carefully in the car. The last thing Sam needed was to lop off a couple of toes closing the heavy-framed door. Shuddering at the imagined disaster, Dean buckled Sam's seatbelt and closed the door. Immediately, Sam listed toward the center of the front seat restrained only by the give in the safety belt.

"You gonna be able to drive with him like this?" Bobby asked. "We could all fit in the front of my truck."

"Nah," Dean blew out wearily. "I got lots of practice at this." He rubbed the 5 o'clock shadow on his chin briskly. "Besides, Sam might get delirious again. I know he'll recognize the Impala."

"Good point. You want me to ride with you?" Bobby asked. "Might be a good idea if Sam goes loco again."

Dean nodded as he moved toward the driver's side. A light rain kicked in just to make things more miserable. He was glad that Sam was already dry in the car. Dean felt his already damp clothes get wetter as he keyed the locked door open. The rain was just cold enough to make him shiver. He quickly sat down and pulled up the back door lock.

"This is one miserable night," Bobby gruffed as he sat down. The older man reached up into the front seat and righted Sam's listless body. "You be careful driving to the clinic. These old roads get slippery."

"I hear ya," Dean responded. He started the car, turned it around and headed down the road. Beside him, Sam started to rouse.

"Dean?" Sam asked bewildered.

"Yeah?" Dean nodded at the same time.

"Job done?" Sam sluggishly looked around the cab of the car.

"You know it." The wipers rhythmically swiped the rain from the windshield with a creaky cadence. Dean glared at a leaf trapped in the moving left wiper. It left a smeary spot right in front of his line-of-sight.

"Where we goin'?" Sam asked. Dean could see his brother trace the path of wind-driven rain drops down the side window with his long fingers. "We're done, right?'

Dean couldn't help but roll his eyes. Sick Sam had the attention span and memory of a turnip. "To see Jefferson."

"You hurt?" Sam stopped his tracing and looked at Dean in alarm.

"No, Sam. I'm fine. You're the one that's sick." Dean replied with the patience of a saint. The damn leaf was driving him nuts. He alternately switched the wipers on and off hoping to dislodge it.

"Dean? Why's Bobby sleepin' in the back seat?" Dean could feel Sam shifting his weight to get a better look.

"Bobby is helping us get to Jefferson. As for sleeping, it's in the middle of the night. He's tired," Dean said distractedly. Maybe if he rolled the window down, he could somehow reach around and snag it.

"It sure is hot in here," Sam muttered as he rolled down his own window. Instantly, wind and rain poured in and blasted Bobby directly in the face. Sputtering, the bearded man woke with a start.

"Sam! Roll the damn window up!" Bobby bellowed, wiping off his face.

"Sure, Bobby. Why's it so cold in here?" Sam asked this time, wiggling in his seat as he rolled up the window.

"Because you're sick, Sam," Dean reminded still glaring angrily at the smeary leaf. "It's cold because of your fever. It makes your body feel cold."

"Duh, I know that," Sam smirked and then paused. "Dean? Where's my pants?"

The alternating wiper speed was doing nothing but making things worse. Dean ignored Sam as he started rolling down his own window to rectify the situation. Dean tilted forward and stretched his left arm out the window. Once again, wind and rain poured in and blasted Bobby directly in the face. The older man had shifted to the other side of the car to avoid the previous wet spot.

"Dammit, Dean! Not you too!" Bobby yelled, scooting to the middle of the back bench seat. "I'm driving my own damn car next time," he groused. "At least I still have dry underwear," he blurted out ineffectively. "Yours is wet all over my dammed yard!"

Dean shrugged at the truth in Bobby's statement as he groped for the evasive leaf. In his stupid attempt to payback Sam's imagined boxer prank, Dean had actually strewn his own boxers all over Bobby's now-wet front lawn. Beside him, he heard Sam exclaim, "What's all over my thigh?"

The rain started pouring heavily the moment Dean's fingers caught the edge of the leaf. His previously damp t-shirt became waterlogged. The triumph of the capture was cut short as the wipers slapped his fingers painfully. Hissing at the pain, Dean pulled his arm back in and rapidly rolled up the window. His wet arm liberally dripped icy, cold water directly onto his lap. He hissed again from a different kind of discomfort.

"Dean?" Sam's voice warbled like he was very upset. "What's wrong with me? You said you were taking me to Jefferson."

The leaf was now gone, but now the windshield was fogging up from the abrupt change in temperature. Dean cursed and threw the defroster on high. Of course, that only made the windshield foggier. From the back seat, he heard Bobby answer Sam.

"Nothing too bad, Sam," Bobby soothed. "You've been 'running' at both ends and have a bad fever. Jefferson is gonna make sure your stomach settles down and you don't get dehydrated."

Groping through the front seat, Dean scored a handful of paper napkins and proceeded to finally clear a viewing hole out the front window. He let out a sigh of relief. The rain was so heavy that he could feel the Impala's wheels hydroplane in spurts as the classic car hit pools of water on the poorly draining roadway. Dean really needed to see where he was going. He was grateful that Bobby seemed to be able to calm Sam down.

"Diarrhea…vomiting…fever….and…and…discharge? Oh, God, I have _gonorrhea_!" Sam cried aghast.

"What?" Dean sputtered, turning his head sharply. In the dim light he could see Sam staring horrified at a white paste covering his splayed fingers. The heavy flush of high-fever contrasted sharply with the white goo. "No! It's not that, Sam. It's just-"

"Dean! Watch the road!" Bobby bellowed over the back seat.

Already warned about the poor condition of the roads, Dean wrestled his attention back out the window to find the road ahead washed out in the heavy rain. He slammed on the brakes in panic. All three men braced themselves for the worst.

They were not disappointed.

The Impala was a wonderful, classic muscle-car; powerful, fast and sexy. However, it did not have anti-lock brakes. And it was very, very heavy.

In the downpour, the Impala's brakes jolted, and then the car spun. And spun and spun. Dean, Sam and Bobby gripped their seats for dear life and screamed. The car made three graceful, 360 degree rotations before coming to a stop in the middle of the washout. The screams died off as everyone realized that they weren't about to die. Finally, the only sound was the purr of the engine and the heavy patter of rain on the roof. Until…

"I think I'm gonna be sick."

Dean peeled his fingers off the steering wheel just as Sam threw open the car door to vomit for the hundredth time that day. Once again, Dean lurched across the front seat to catch Sam just before he landed on his face. Dean winced in sympathy at the feel of Sam's straining abdomen tucked in his restraining arm. When the retching stopped, he helped Sam sit back up. The heat rolled off Sam's now soaked body in waves. Bobby managed to reach across the back seat and close Sam's door.

"Dean," Bobby whispered, "I think he's throwing up blood. Can you get through the wash?"

Grabbing the napkins he used to wipe the foggy windows, Dean gently raised Sam's chin and wiped his brother's face. Sure enough, the napkins tinged pink from around Sam's mouth. Dean's gut clenched with worry.

"Sam, are you okay?" Dean asked, searching his brother's face. Sam wouldn't meet his eye.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry," Sam muttered, shaking his head.

"It's okay, Sam. What are you sorry for?" Dean asked, concerned.

"It's all over the seats. I'm so sorry, Dean," Sam apologized.

"What? What's all over the seats?" Dean asked adjusting Sam's seatbelt.

Sam didn't answer right away. He merely raised his shaky hand covered with the missing, melted suppository. "I think I have gonorrhea… and…and it got all over the seat."

"No, no, no. You don't have gonorrhea. I promise," Dean gave Sam his best reassuring smile. "That white stuff is just …uh…._medicine_ that I used to help get your fever down." Dean turned his attention back to the road. The rain was starting to slack off and was reducing by the minute. Dean experimentally gassed the engine and then slowly started out of wash. Ever his baby, the Impala faithfully pulled them out of the water and continued back on the road.

"Medicine?" Sam asked. "For fever?" Dean could see Sam staring at his hand in revulsion. "Is this a suppository?" Sam's voice went up an octave at the question.

"Yep."

"Oh, man. That's so wrong." Sam hastily wiped his sticky fingers on the used napkin. "What the hell did you do? Miss?"

"Not the second time," Dean snorted. Sam groaned and buried his face in his hands.

"Here, Dean. Turn here," Bobby ordered as Dean turned into the clinic drive. "Sam, your brother only did what he had to do."

"I know. Thanks, Dean," Sam said sincerely. After a pause, he added, "But next time, let me do that myself." In the back seat, Bobby broke into laughter.

"Sure thing, little brother," Dean replied thinking of his session with an unresponsive Sam. "Sure thing."

_**Tbc.**_

_The end is written. I just need to fix the hospital scene so it doesn't read like an old episode of Marcus Welby, MD! The suggestions in the reviews have been a delight. Thank you, thank you! (and send me more!)_

_Surplus_


	7. Chapter 7 Hospital Scrubs

Chili Cook-Off,

_**Chili Cook-Off**__, _

_By Surplus Imagination_

_**Disclaimer: **__See chapter 1._

_**A/N:**__ Ah, at last, the end. I hope I made this last part funny enough. _

_**Previously in Chapter 6:**_

"_Medicine?" Sam asked. "For fever?" Dean could see Sam staring at his hand in revulsion. "Is this a suppository?" Sam's voice went up an octave at the question._

"_Yep." _

"_Oh, man. That's so wrong." Sam hastily wiped his sticky fingers on the used napkin. "What the hell did you do? Miss?"_

"_Not the second time," Dean snorted. Sam groaned and buried his face in his hands._

"_Here, Dean. Turn here," Bobby ordered as Dean turned into the clinic drive. "Sam, your brother only did what he had to do." _

"_I know. Thanks, Dean," Sam said sincerely. After a pause, he added, "But next time, let me do that myself." In the back seat, Bobby broke into laughter. _

"_Sure thing, little brother," Dean replied thinking of his session with an unresponsive Sam. "Sure thing."_

_**Chapter 7 – Hospital Scrubs**_

Dean pulled up under the canopied entrance way to the small clinic. Dean could see Jefferson standing outside the emergency door with a wheel chair. It was hard to miss the man. Jefferson was about the same height as Sam, but had fifty pounds of muscle on his giant brother. A completely shaven head only served to accentuate the burly doctor's dark skin. Jefferson always stood out in a crowd. He had the passenger door open before Dean had completely stopped the car.

"Hey, Sam. Long time, no see." Jefferson immediately crouched and looked Sam over. Dean cut the engine and quickly unbuckled. The sky still poured rain, but they were sheltered under the canopy of the entrance way.

"Hey, Jefferson," Sam slurred with a weak smile. Small beads of sweat dotted Sam's face and trailed down his cheeks.

"I hear you've been feeling poorly. Why don't you come inside and let me take a look," the big man smoothed while feeling Sam's forehead. "That's quite some fever you're sporting there. What else is wrong?" Jefferson looked up at Dean at that last request. Sam answered instead.

"I've been coming down with something for a day, or so. Then at lunch, Dean & I stopped at a chili cook-off. I think I ate too much because I started throwing up a couple of hours later….and then got the runs. It's been pretty bad, but I'm sure I'll be fine." Sam's voice trailed off as he slowly closed his eyes appearing to fall asleep.

"Without a doubt," Jefferson sighed. "Never met a Winchester that wasn't 'fine' regardless of the state of his body." He pulled out a thermometer and took a reading. Frowning, he removed the stethoscope from around his neck and listened to Sam's lungs. "Sam, are you having a hard time breathing?" Sam only nodded, keeping his eyes closed. Jefferson patted Sam's shoulder and stood up.

"Sounds like there is fluid in his lungs; could be developing pneumonia. What ever else is wrong probably set the stage for that. Are there any other symptoms?" Jefferson asked.

"On the way here, he threw up what looked like blood," Bobby answered.

Jefferson looked surprised at this, but said nothing. From the car, Sam reached out to tug Jefferson's arm.

"I think_** its**_ back," Sam wheezed, pulling Jefferson down to his level. "Man, you promised that _**it**_ wouldn't come back."

Bobby & Dean shared a silent look of confusion.

"Sam, 'it' doesn't come back on it's own after six years," Jefferson firmly avowed. "You're having _those_ symptoms again? You promised me that you'd be careful from now on."

Sam shook his head wildly, and then paused to start nodding in an exaggerated way. "Dean says it's his fault, but I don't think it is, man."

"Dean gave you the _clap_?" Jefferson practically shrieked, turning a shocked face toward the older Winchester who was hovering just behind his shoulder.

Stunned, Dean took a step back. "What? Hell, no!" Dean bellowed, arms gesturing wildly. "It was a suppository! I dropped a suppository in his shorts and Sam found the melted mess and started freaking out in the car." Dean visibly shuddered with his whole body. "It was for the fever. Sam couldn't hold anything down."

"I knew_ it_ would come back," Sam groaned and bent at the waist in pain. "Never should have slept with all three of them," he unwittingly admitted. The downward motion of Sam's body caused an involuntary release in 'pressure'. All three standing men took a momentary step back.

"Good thing we are out of the car with that one," Bobby quipped, reaching for the wheelchair. "Can we move this inside?"

"Wait a minute. You treated my brother six years ago for 'the clap'?" Dean asked angrily, crowding the doctor. "Sixteen years old and he shows up with _gonorrhea_ and you never told me?"

"Doctor-patient privilege, Dean. You know that drill," Jefferson calmly stared Dean down. "Unless you want me to tell Sam about that time with the x-ray." Jefferson waited with a look of expectation on his face. Dean didn't reply, but he did back off, expression tense.

"I must be missing all the good stuff over the years," Bobby groused. "That's not important now. We can all get drunk and swap stories later. The rain is getting worse and Sam is seriously stinkin' the whole area up."

From the car, Sam shook his head and pointed at Dean who didn't deny it this time. Jefferson shook his head and pushed Dean out of the way. He grabbed the wheelchair and easily got Sam out of the car and into the seat. Bobby grabbed the keys to park the Impala, while Dean went in with Sam, flip-flopping his way noisily along.

"Nice shoes," Jefferson snorted as he wheeled Sam into the clinic. Dean sighed at his choice of glow-in-the-dark flip-flops for the second time that day. He followed a laughing Jefferson into the clinic, grateful that for once he wouldn't be stopped to fill out paperwork.

The 'clinic' was really a twenty bed hospital that served the rural tri-county area. It was well stocked and technologically up-to-date. Three extremely attractive nurses stopped talking to stare at the brothers entering in with Jefferson. Dean thought that the attention was due to his dripping water all over their clean floor. In reality, it was due to how Dean looked in his soaking wet t-shirt and black pants.

"Damn!" One blonde nurse exclaimed. Dean blushed and apologized for the mess. "I'll come back out and clean up the water just as soon as my brother is settled," he swore. The trio of women just giggled and appreciatively watched his clothing-molded body walk away. The three quickly threw a round of 'rock-paper-scissors'. The red-head won out to the groans of the other two.

In the triage room, Jefferson tried to get Sam situated on the exam table, but lost out to the bathroom. With a groan, Sam lurched up out of the wheel chair and stumbled into the tiny enclosed lavatory. Dean moved to follow, but Jefferson stilled him with a firm grip on the shoulder. "You leave Sam alone about what you think happened six years ago. It took me some serious talking to get him take treatment and open up back then. He was so worried that he'd disappoint you and your Dad going after that coven of witches alone."

"Sam went after a coven of witches alone. At sixteen," Dean echoed.

"They weren't really witches," Jefferson grinned. "Just a group of bored, young housewives lusting after the teenager who mowed their lawn for extra cash. After Sam realized that he had been duped, he was worried about your's and John's reaction."

"Well, he should have been worried. Witches are really hard to deal with. I would have kicked his ass back then. He should have known better," Dean muttered wiping excess water dripping from his wet hair. "Did he really sleep with three women?" Dean asked peering worriedly at the bathroom door.

"At the very least," Jefferson affirmed with a big grin. "And I can vouch personally for the fact that all five were extremely attractive."

"At sixteen?" Dean marveled and puffed up his chest. "Disappointed? Hell, I'd have been proud," Dean strutted a little, remembering his painfully shy brother at sixteen. A little of himself must have rubbed off on the boy, not that he knew it at the time.

Eventually they got Sam out of the bathroom and did a more thorough exam. The red-headed nurse came in and efficiently took vital signs, started an IV and drew vials of blood at Jefferson's direction. She got Sam out of his wet clothes and into a dry hospital gown. Dean swore he hear her mutter, 'My, what a big boy' as she dressed Sammy, but he might have been mistaken. She placed a nasal canula for oxygen in Sam's nose before taking the blood to the lab. Dean wasn't mistaken when she winked suggestively at him as she left.

"I asked for a rush job. We should get an answer on the blood tests within the hour," Jefferson stated listening to Sam's lungs again. "I have already given him something strong to bring down that fever. As for the rest, I suspect some form of dysentery is causing the bloody vomiting and diarrhea. I have no idea what is causing the fluid in the lungs. We'll get a chest x-ray to confirm, but I'm positive he also has pneumonia."

"Dysentery?" Dean asked, confused. "I thought people only got that out of the country."

"Salmonellosis is a type of dysentery often caused by contaminated meats. That's very common in here. Sam said that you went to a chili cook-off? Perfect place to pick something like that up."

Dean nodded his head. _He_ certainly had his share of chili problems that day.

Jefferson continued. "I don't think Sam has that type. I think he picked up amoebic dysentery instead. It fits the symptoms better. Was Sam in contact with human feces in the last few days?"

"We did a poltergeist job in a preschool yesterday afternoon. The dammed thing was living in the sewer system. Screwed with the toilets in a big way," Dean replied.

"Bingo!" Jefferson gave Sam a firm shake to wake him up. "Sam, can you tell me what happened in with the poltergeist? Were you listening?"

Sam peeled his eyes open. He looked more lucid that he had all evening. Dean felt a surge of relief.

"Yeah, I'm listening. I'm starting to feel better. Can I go now?" Sam asked and struggled to rise up on one elbow.

Jefferson pushed Sam back down. "You lie flat until I tell you to get up. Now spill, what happened with the poltergeist?"

Sam sighed and covered his eyes with one arm. Without looking he tiredly announced, "It got the drop on me and pushed my head in the toilet. Damn near drowned in that pint-sized pot."

"And you were planning on telling me this when?" Dean demanded. "I need to know these things, Sam."

Sam just covered the rest of his face with the other arm.

"That explains the water in the lungs," Jefferson mused. "We will start Sam on a combination of antibiotics once we get the blood tests back. Some good drugs, a lot of fluids and some real rest and Sam will be good as new. Dysentery and pneumonia are both easily treated. He'll have to stay the rest of the night, but will be able to go home once his fever goes down."

Relief replaced ire as Dean realized that Sam would be fine. "Hear that, Sammy-boy? You are gonna be fine and the nurses around here are _hot_! That red-head was checking you out a minute ago."

"Go away, Dean." Sam ordered through his arms.

"Actually," Jefferson interjected, "I think she was checking you out, Dean. Things get a little _relaxed_ around here on the graveyard shift."

"Really?" Now that Sam was going to be fine, Dean was instantly interested in getting his own 'local action'.

"I'd say so. You are big star around here," Jefferson grinned. Lying on the gurney, Sam gave his own snort of amusement. "We caught your performance on You Tube. The nurses have been playing it in the break room all day. Quite the show-stopper!" Jefferson crowed as he left the room. "Sam, I'm gonna get you a room. Be right back, man."

As Jefferson left the room, the blond nurse came in pushing a portable x-ray machine. She smiled coquettishly at Dean as she set the equipment up. It took Dean all of five seconds to take in each and every one of her positive 'attributes' as she leaned, bent, moved and positioned the machine for use. Her hospital nurses' scrubs somehow managed to accentuate her figure, rather than cover it up. Dean quickly grew appreciative of how much leaning, bending, moving and positioning the task took.

Beside him, Sam roused from his doze at the noise as the brunette nurse also entered. The brunette gave Dean a wide smile as she obviously checked out his form. At a quiet word from the blonde, she turned to help her co-worker. The two conferred and then, surprisingly giggled, before raising Sam up on his bed.

Dean watched the blonde lower Sam's gown into a ready position for the chest picture, and then blush attractively at Sam's answering guileless smile. If only his little brother had any idea how women fluttered around the big lout, Sam would realize that he was real competition for his big brother. Then again, if Sam had really scored three girls all at once at the tender age of sixteen…. Dean's musing broke off as the two women giggled again, both pointedly staring.

"Sir, if you are _up_ to it, we need you to leave the room for a minute," the blonde grinned nudging her companion. The brunette laughed as she donned the lead apron in preparation for the x-ray. Her eyes kept darting downward as she grinned.

Dean grinned back at the boisterous duo. His brain was already working scenarios involving traditional nurse's uniforms and an empty exam room. His revelry was broken by Sam calling his name. Looking over, he saw Sam mouth the words 'stripper pants' and flicked his finger downward.

Gaze torn from the blonde and brunette, Dean's smile faltered as he glanced down at himself. His still wet clothing stuck to him like a second skin revealing his interest in the nurses in a three-dimensional way. He was seriously tenting!

As if on cue, the two nurses giggled again. Dean pasted his grin back on his face and looked up only to find Bobby walking in with the red-headed nurse. Bobby never missed a beat as he entered and remarked, "Damn, Dean! You look like one happy 'camper' there. I take it things are looking _up_?" Sam snorted on the table.

"It's cold in here, I'll have you know. And I'm….I'm…wet," Dean stammered as his 'ridgepole' began to wilt.

"Well, lets get you out of those wet clothes," the red-head enthused. She reached over to grasp Dean's arm and pulled him from the room to the obvious dismay of the brunette. The blonde chose that moment to adjust Sam's gown one last time with an alluring grin. Dean flashed a look of triumph at Bobby as he allowed himself to be led. The remaining blonde nurse chased Bobby from the room and finished Sam's x-rays.

About thirty minutes later, a smirking Dean found Sam's new room wearing a dry pair of light green scrubs. He greeted his brother and Bobby as he flopped in an empty chair stretching his arms languorously behind his head. "You are definitely looking better, Sam."

"Fever's down to 101 degrees," Bobby stated, "and he hasn't had to run to the toilet the whole time you've been gone."

"I'm feeling a lot better," Sam sighed as he sipped on a cup of water. "What took you so long?" Sam did indeed look better. He had progressed from green and flushed to just plain pale. The fever gleam was gone from his eyes, but Dean could still see extreme exhaustion in the bags underneath them. No way Sam was going to leave the hospital in the morning.

"I needed a little help with my clothes," Dean smiled. Before Sam could reply, the red-headed nurse entered the room. Sam and Bobby's jaws dropped as they took in the big 'wet spots' covering strategic areas of her nurse's scrubs. The red-head plopped a bag of obviously wet clothes down on the table beside Dean before scooting from the room, blowing Dean a parting kiss.

"Well, I'll be damned," Bobby laughed. "Seems that you can _rise_ to any occasion, Dean!"

Sam was released two days later with a full range of antibiotics, an inhaler, and firm orders to stay in bed for a week. Dean was ordered to stay away from chili cook-offs and hand-held cameras.

Jefferson proved to be right about Sam's symptoms on all counts. His immunities lowered by a common cold and a bout of food poisoning from improperly served chili, Sam managed to contract amoebic dysentery from his dunking in the preschool commode and pneumonia from the toilet water in his lungs from the near drowning. The rapid onset of the latter two was only a function of his weakened state from the first two. Jefferson lectured both brothers on the importance on taking care of their health, not that either one really listened.

As he was being wheeled out of the hospital by the blonde nurse, Heather, Sam watched in amusement as Dean was greeted by many of the hospital staff with slapped high-fives and loud 'Take care, Pit Stop". It was just like Dean to turn on-line embarrassment into a celebrity status. When they reached the Impala, Sam turned his head away to avoid watching the demonstrative good-bye kisses Dean got from both red-headed, Melody, and brunette, Candace.

As Sam rose from the wheelchair he felt a squeeze on his hand and the insertion of a small slip of paper. Heather smiled seductively and whispered, "You call me when you're feeling better, Sam."

First Sam and then Dean got into the Impala. Both brothers sighed and blew out a long breath in unison.

"Ready, Sam?" Dean asked starting up the engine.

"Ready, Pit Stop," Sam grinned. "Dude, you are never going to live that one down."

"Yuk it up, Puke Boy," Dean retorted with a laugh. "I have equal embarrassing moments on you, too." Dean tossed a package into Sam's lap as he pulled out of the hospital. With a last wave at the adoring trio of nurses, Sam looked in the bag.

"Boxers?"

"I tried to wash the ones in the yard, but Bobby beat me to them," Dean drawled while pulling out into traffic. "He super-glued the fly to the back of the shorts on each pair, so I bought us both new ones."

"Kind of like short-sheeting a bed," Sam laughed. "I was going play that prank."

"Me, too," Dean snorted. "Truce?"

"Until I'm better," Sam smiled. "Then I say we get Bobby back."

"Way ahead of you, little brother." Dean reached between the seats and tossed a small hand-held camera onto Sam's lap.

"Sweet!" Sam grinned in reply. Together, they made their way back to Bobby's house for a week of recuperation. Bobby would never know what hit him!

**The End**

_Jeeze-Louize I thought I'd never finish this. Thank you for your patience. The end of tax season seriously kicked my butt. I hope every last one of you didn't need a filing extension! Let me know if I managed to finish this well. I'm a bit worried that it wasn't funny enough. Thanks for reading!!_

_Surplus_


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